


Operation Separation

by missilemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hostage Situation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The formation of an unbreakable bond? Not if Sherlock has his way! As they say, the road to hell is paved with the best of intentions... post-TBB… pre-TGG... Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PLAN OF OPERATION

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for slight not-explicit non-con in Chapter 5
> 
> Spoilers: for the first and second episodes  
> Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to ACD's grey cells and each other in that order.
> 
> Author's notes: I have no idea how this was going to turn out, as starting to write this (my first story) in the first place was the result of a poorly controlled impulse. In love with the BBC reincarnation, so please excuse this fit of insanity. Credit for inspiration goes to the fabulous actors and the amazing fanfic writers respectively… Enjoy..(hopefully!).

It was 10 p.m. The hustle and bustle of the surrounding offices had stilled, causing the second hand of the clock sweeping across its face to be the loudest sound in the room, not that he was aware of it. He closed the file in front of him after putting a final signature on the paper. All he wanted was a few hours of uninterrupted sleep but it didn't show in the way he held himself. Appearances were important. He wouldn't be where he was if he couldn't keep up appearances. There was the final report of the day on the upcoming Korean elections that he had to finish reading. It wouldn't do to be unable to keep up with his frighteningly efficient new assistant. His hands didn't betray any exhaustion as he stretched to get the file but before he could open it; a low buzz filled the room. His assistant would have traded her job to see her unflappable boss surprised, even if it was only for an instant. Only two people had access to that number and he knew there was no way that Mummy would be up at this hour. If he was shocked his voice didn't betray him.

"Hello Sherlock"

"Mycroft"… no preambles, not that he expected any, "I need to speak with you. Could you meet me tonight?"

The tone was devoid of his usual derision. His brother's voice was a shade too smooth, controlled.

A phone call and a request (not an order) for a meeting the same day. This was unprecedented and proportionately worrying.

"You could come to the office right now." That was when he heard the sound of distant sirens in the background.

"Not right now. I will see you in an hour and not in that bug box you call your office. The usual place. Don't be late." The phone was cut off.

This was more like it.

He pressed the intercom." I need a full report on my brother's activities with respect to his latest Case on my desk in fifteen minutes."

"Yes Sir."

Too bad the report on Korean elections will have to wait…

 

 ***

 

In an hour, he was walking sedately up to the fountain, his umbrella casually swinging by his side. Sherlock was already sitting on the bench... sitting still. One sweeping look ascertained that he appeared unhurt. Yet he wasn't restless or fidgeting, sitting still with his hands clasped in front of his face in deep contemplation of the grass in his line of sight. He did not look up as his brother approached.

"You are late.''

"Some of us have work to do, you see, beyond answering bizarre summons at a moment's notice."

Silence…

"Mycroft, I need to do something about John."

_Ah... The good doctor._

Sherlock twisted his head so that he was now facing Mycroft, the moonlight making his eyes gleam. The last time he had looked like that was when he had been ten and the family dog was about to be put down. The report had not been that bad, considering he was not meeting his brother near a hospital bed. Somehow recently, that had been the only place they tended to meet if you discounted the last time, and that was due to Dr. Watson too.He didn't respond. Insufficient data.

"He was kidnapped tonight, a case of mistaken identity. They wanted me. Instead they captured him along with his date. I barely reached in time to save him. I … He could have been… I could have been too late. I very nearly was too late."

His head was back in his hands, eyes squeezed shut, elbows resting on his knees. He took a deep breath.

"I assumed that as soon as we were back at Baker Street, he would begin making preparations to leave. I had prepared myself for this eventuality even before rescuing him. He was... injured. The EMT's had to patch him up for a minor head trauma." He paused.

Mycroft was eyeing the tip of his umbrella with great interest. He was already aware of the details, except for the mistaken identity bit (mistaken identity in era of www…really!). He knew where this was going.

Sherlock's voice dropped lower, "He thanked me."

Then he snapped to his feet pacing furiously, his hands in his hair, not bothering to keep his voice low.

"He should be running away from me, as fast as he can. _That_ should be the logical outcome of what happened. I don't understand. He… I don't understand, " he fell helplessly silent.

Mycroft finally found his opening. "Calm down Sherlock. You are overthinking this."

"If you can cease being your patronising self for a second-"

"Dr. Watson is a battle hardened soldier. He deliberately shot a man within twenty-four hours of meeting you. So do not insult his integrity or courage by implying that a petty kidnapping would rattle him, would make him flee. In doing so, _you_ are the one who is patronizing _him_."

"This was very different, Mycroft. Being mistaken for me… almost being killed instead of me. John didn't choose this like last time. A meaningless death in a filthy alley where the murderer doesn't even know your name. No one would choose that."

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock, he is not a child who needs you mollycoddling him. He chose to live with you despite being completely aware of the danger involved. He chooses to admire you in spite of your unbridled arrogance. He chooses to trust you with no effort on your part to earn that trust."  
Sherlock had closed his eyes, but Mycroft continued mercilessly, "He chose to stop you from gambling on your life by shooting that despicable cabbie. "

"Exactly… it is my turn now to stop him from gambling on his. I owe it to him ."

Mycroft cursed internally. There it was again, undeniable LOGIC. For a moment he found himself wishing that his brother was actually a sociopath. The fact that he cared but had no understanding of the mechanics of emotion was more of a bother. Logic was Sherlock's compass. That emotions defied logic was beyond his understanding. Fine then; he was going to have to learn this lesson the hard way. Mycroft got up gathering his umbrella.

"Alright then, you are essentially correct in deducing that Dr. Watson ought to move out. Certainly a new lifestyle would be far safer, more conducive to his longevity."

Sherlock stared at him, taken aback at the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

"You agree with me," he shot suspiciously.

"Obviously, I do hate repeating myself." With this parting shot he began walking away.

"I need your help."

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks while smothering a small gasp. Those words had never been uttered by an adult Sherlock, not even through the agony of a painful rehab . Today was a red letter day indeed.

"John needs to chance upon new accommodations that would be suitable and affordable for him on leaving Baker Street, preferably somewhere close to his place of work. I know you can arrange that without arousing suspicion on his part."

Sherlock saw the smirk before Mycroft could completely hide it.

"Believe me when I say that approaching you was the last resort and painful as it may be; I'll owe you a favour for this. You could compel me to solve one of your mind-numbing tedious problems."

"You misunderstand me, little brother." Sherlock winced at the epithet. "Entertaining though your frustration is; what I am actually amused about is your misplaced confidence in your ability to manipulate him into leaving."

"How I achieve that is none of your concern."

"Oh, none in the slightest," Mycroft chortled. "Is that all then?"

"Yes"

"Very well… I will call in that favour when I need to. Good luck Sherlock!"

 

Sherlock raised the collar of his coat as he trudged slowly back to Baker Street. Good luck indeed. Luck had nothing to do with what he intended. He had a plan of operation with the steps worked out. By the time he was done, John would be through with him.

He sped up unconsciously. It should be easy. He was a sociopathic freak. His parents had thought so. Three separate shrinks had certified it on paper. Seb, Sally, Anderson…now Dimmock were convinced of this. He didn't care what his brother thought. He had reached the front door and unlocked it quietly, just for today. John was hurt and needed his rest. Starting tomorrow things would be different. This was going to be a piece of cake.

 


	2. KINDLING

 

(2 Days later)

John awoke in the morning, blinking post sleep haze out of his eyes. He felt …alive. It was a marked improvement to three weeks prior, when he used to wake up shaking and gasping, having to remind himself of reasons why he wasn't biting a bullet from his own gun instead of enduring the pathetic existence that his injury had foisted on him. The reasons had been pitifully few.

  
In the weeks since shaking Sherlock's hand at the door of 221B; his life had got a major make-over, no offence to Connie Prince. Not even the day before yesterday's near-death encounter could get him down. Of course Sarah's involvement had been unfortunate, but since they had escaped being skewered and shot respectively; it was hard to feel grim about it. Besides, she now thought of him as her hero. He gave a short laugh as he remembered the limping, therapist-certified-PTSD-afflicted mess that he had been and dragged himself off to the bathroom, noting Sherlock's early morning absence from the flat. 

 

***

 

Sherlock was at the NSY at Dimmock's behest. Despite his contrary nature to police procedure, even he realized that having more allies at the yard would only increase his pool of 'interesting' cases. The interaction was however only serving to make him grateful for the fact that his main contact at the yard was Lestrade instead of this short-sighted fool. Even though the Black-Lotus connection was all that had been uncovered, there had been a niggling sensation at the back of his mind that he had been missing something important. As if to confirm his suspicions, Shan had been murdered, her body found with a bullet between her eyes. Though Sherlock felt sorry that he hadn't been the one to put it there, the murder itself had been a bit unnecessary as the General had escaped capture. Killing a senior operative in a smuggling ring to cover all tracks had been a bit drastic and very effective in burying the British connection to the case. In short; it had been a merciless yet brilliant move. Add to that, the graffiti of an eye that was gracing the post-box opposite 221B and he knew that whoever his shadowy opponent was; he was surely not going to make the mistake of underestimating him again.

All in all, he was glad that John wouldn't be there when the danger escalated.

He ran into Lestrade just as he was leaving the building, who greeted him with, "Is Dr. Watson alright? Dimmock mentioned that he had been injured."

"Of course he is alright, Lestrade."

"Then why isn't he with you? It's a Sunday. It's not like he has to be at the surgery."

This was the reason why he had been mentally admiring the D.I. for his astuteness. He had met John all of three times, yet had surmised that his absence was odd. He made his tone sufficiently cutting as he replied, "John Watson and I aren't joined at the hip, contrary to whatever assumptions are made by you and your minions."

Lestrade smirked, "So, had a fight, did you?"

Sherlock gave him a withering glare and was about to speak when his phone beeped.

FROM: JW  
WHERE ARE YOU?

He ignored it. After about a minute, it beeped again.

FROM: JW  
IS IT A NEW CASE?

This time there was a thirty second wait.

FROM: JW  
NEED HELP?

The man had a death wish.  
Ignoring Lestrade's pointed look, Sherlock turned to leave while typing simultaneously.

FROM: SH  
YOUR ASSISTANCE IS UNNECESSARY.

This time the phone stayed silent.

John stared at the last message, squinting against the sunlight as he walked to Tesco to stock up on milk, tea and nicotine patches. This was …unexpected. From a man who needed help to send a text via a mobile in his own pocket, it was downright disturbing…or maybe not. Sherlock must be worried that he hadn't fully recovered yet. Once he was reassured that John was fine; he would probably return to convincing him to do his laundry again. He smiled wryly to himself as he added 2 bottles of milk to the cart.

Come to think of it; Sherlock's behavior had been rather odd since the past two days. After the rescue and while seeing Sarah safely home, Sherlock had been strangely quiet and withdrawn. He had spoken with John only to inspect his head and ask medically relevant questions. Once at the flat Sherlock… yes _Sherlock_  had made him a cup of tea and then literally shoved him to bed. But all through the interaction, he had been tense and skittish as though waiting for something unpleasant. Just as he was leaving for bed, John had said, "Thank you for turning up when you did. I guess we are square now."

Sherlock had looked like John had slapped him. At the time, he had put it down as a reaction to being thanked. Let's face it; the Consultant Detective wasn't thanked on a day-to-day basis. He had not wished to make Sherlock more uncomfortable, besides having a killer headache to contend with and so had walked off to his room with a view to continuing the discussion in the morning. The following day had flown by, spent in giving statements, recovering the pin and skinning that smarmy git, Sebastian out of a neat five figure sum. That had oddly been the most satisfying part of the case for John. _Sherlock was just being a mother-hen_ , he reassured himself, and took it as a sign that the chip and pin machine co-operated with him this time around. _There was nothing to worry about._

 

(DAY 4)

 

Now four days after the kidnapping fiasco, as he called it, he wasn't so sure. Something had changed though he couldn't put a finger on it. It had started with the text message that he had chosen to ignore, but now there were all the little…or not so little things.

  
The dreaded violin had finally made an appearance at 3.30 a.m. on the same night. As if his nightmares weren't keeping him awake already, now there was a steady caterwauling to keep him company. The usual mess all over the flat seemed to be replicating itself on an hourly basis. The day before, John had come home, bone-tired, after an exhausting day at the clinic to find half decomposed human intestines soaking in the bath-tub, in what smelt like sewage water.

Yet, these were not the things getting under his skin. He had been warned about the violin, although he did not understand how that unearthly noise could be called 'playing' in any context. As for the intestines, the eyeballs in the microwave had been warning enough (although he would miss never running a bath in his own flat).

No that wasn't it…

It was Sherlock. To say his behavior had been strange, would be an understatement. Then again, it would have helped if the change had been drastic enough to bring about a confrontation. The only way John could describe it to himself (however ridiculous that sounded) was that Sherlock was somehow channeling Mycroft . He was never rude, instead was so solicitous as to be painful. Even when John had been yelling himself hoarse about the bath, he had listened quietly, offering neither anger nor remorse in return. It was like shouting at a stranger. Their comfortable camaraderie was completely absent, like he had successfully forgotten their interactions over the last three weeks. Though John had known his flat mate for a ridiculously short period of time, his gut feeling told him something was wrong. He had connected to Sherlock in a way no one had before and refused to let himself believe that the last three weeks had been an act. Now he felt like he had been relegated to the 'rest of the world' subset inhabited by people like Anderson and Donovan. This pissed him off to no end. He was desperately itching for a fight, to hash it all out.

Then finally on the fourth day, things came to a head.

"What do you mean, you burned it?" His voice was dangerously calm, determined as he was to not be the one to start shouting this time. His fists were clenched, all five feet seven inches of him rigidly held stiff. He somehow knew that if he raised his voice, he would snap and hurt the lounging figure on the sofa who couldn't even be bothered to open his eyes to answer.

"I needed to burn paper to bring out the reagent on the strip. It was the final step of a crucial experiment", he drawled. "I just picked the first thing on the mantelpiece. Usually anything of consequence on it is pinned under the knife. It was an honest mistake." At this, he cracked open a lazy eye, "However, I can see why that would make you furious."

"Honest mistake!" John sputtered. He shook his head now, pressing his eyeballs in to stem his anger and not look at his flatmate. "Sherlock, you burned my paycheck!"

"Stop being so dramatic, John. I will pay you back."

That did it…

"I AM BEING DRAMATIC! For God's sake Sherlock, I work my ass off at a job that is way beneath me, just to be able to pay the rent and share the bills. If it weren't for the generosity of your Uni _friend_ , that paycheck would have been the only thing keeping us afloat. You refuse to take cases unless they deserve your level of consideration. I thought YOU of all people would understand the frustration of getting bored in your job and here you don't even have the decency to apologize-"

As he paused to take a breath, Sherlock sat up on the sofa, fixing him with those ice-chip eyes. He raised a finger and spoke in a cutting voice that John had hitherto only heard being directed at Anderson. "Firstly, John… I _don't_ apologize. I caused you some monetary loss unknowingly and will reimburse you for the same. An apology is a moot point if in recurrent circumstances, I would most certainly behave in a similar fashion."

He raised his voice for emphasis, "…and secondly, stop with the self-pity already! You have a tremor in your dominant hand. You can no longer be a surgeon. These are facts of your life that all the self-pity in the world is not going to change. The sooner you accept your shortcomings, the less tedious it will be for anyone around you."

John had visibly paled by the end of Sherlock's tirade.

"Right," he muttered and took a deep breath as his face closed off. "Right…" he repeated absently.

He turned, took his coat from where it had been draped on a chair, and stormed out of the flat.

 


	3. OUTSIDE OPINIONS

Before the front door had stopped shuddering on impact, Sherlock had already shot to his feet. Within sixty seconds of John leaving the flat, he too was out of the building. It took him another thirty seconds to spot John's angry stride. He kept his distance. The tech had promised good reception at ten meters so keeping a safe distance was not an issue. Besides, John was predictably walking to Sarah's, which was a relief. Sherlock hated bugging him like this but the confrontation had been unsatisfactory in terms of results produced… and John was setting new records for tolerance. Any other month-old flat-sharer would not have lasted beyond the rotting intestine stage. It had taken Sherlock two fruitless days to conclude that the insufferable flat-mate bit was not going to cut it. So he had upped the ante, in a manner of speaking.

If there was one thing that John despised more than murderous scumbags, it was any reminder of his infirmities, physical or psychological. Even while burning the wretched paycheck, Sherlock never thought that he could bring himself to utter the pre-planned words to hurt the man, the words that would act like a fresh wound over the poorly healed scar.

Then he had steeled himself as he brought to his mind the scene that he had made Sarah describe verbatim for him in private. His vivid imagination had no trouble picturing a barely conscious John as he was shoved by those goons in a chair, Shan holding a gun to his temple, clicking on an empty chamber... John pleading for his life.

That had made it very easy.

He had recited his lines coldly, clinically detached, hopin and wishing desperately to be punched or slapped by the end of the monologue. Instead, John had walked out without a word. Now even as he followed John, he was praying for him to ask Sarah if he could temporarily move in with her, because if that did not happen, he didn't know if he had the courage needed to go through with the next step. And yet he would, Lord help him!

John had reached Sarah's apartment building by then. Fortunately, her apartment was on the first storey. He put the earpiece in his ear just as he heard John ring the bell. That was followed by the door being opened and Sarah's voice,

"Oh dear! That bad huh?"

"How on earth did you… never mind. Apparently everyone around me is a bloody mind reader."

"It's called woman's intuition, John. Just sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on."

Footsteps, followed by the sound of John taking off his jacket. Sherlock hoped that he would drape it on the back of the sofa as was his habit; the bug was in the coat collar. About five minutes later, he was already pacing impatiently below the building when he heard Sarah walk back into the room and the sound of a tray being placed on the table before she took a seat on the sofa, no, opposite the sofa, on an ottoman most likely.

"So what did Sherlock do this time?" her voice was sympathetic.

John laughed in answer, in a way that made Sherlock wince to hear it.

"Sarah, please answer me honestly. Do you think I am in denial about my limitations, you know, as a surgeon?"

On hearing these words Sherlock came to dead stop with a groan.  _Oh well done John, I humiliate you and this is what you take away from it._

He could hear Sarah's frown in her reply, "You are only human, John. You have a right to be disappointed, to be bitter even. You don't become a trained surgeon overnight. Suddenly, you have to give it up. From where I am standing, you are taking it pretty well." Now disapproval tinged her voice, "Did Sherlock…"

John's voice interrupted her,"Sherlock …was just being Sherlock. Living with him is like playing a never-ending game of Truth-or-Dare." His voice sounded suddenly tired. "It's just that… I was so busy caught up in the Dare of it; the Truth part is a bit more difficult to handle."

John may not have laid a finger on him at the flat but the last line cut Sherlock like an invisible blade. _Instead of hating him, John was blaming himself_.

"You cut him too much slack," Sarah's voice was without malice.

"Trust me, I  _am_ mad at him. After all he did burn my paycheck."

"What!"

Sherlock took out the earpiece. He had heard enough. Also for some reason, it felt like he was a child again and eavesdropping on his parent's conversations that they used to have after his frequent temper tantrums. He shook his head to clear the image. Besides his plan had spectacularly backfired, thanks to the impracticality displayed by John's emotional side. Of course, he could be trusted to be a glutton for punishment.

As he retraced his steps back to Baker Street, he felt rather than saw one of his brother's black monstrosities glide up behind him. Better deal with this annoyance right now. He sulkily got into the car, noting the absence of the blackberry toting assistant. Oh joy! This was a personal call then. His brother was immaculate as usual with the three-piece suit, umbrella and the smug smile firmly in place. Sherlock suddenly felt too tired for their usual verbal sparring.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Just wanted to have a chat with my baby brother. It is not as though you would willingly answer a summons from me, would you?"

"I am busy."

"I can see _that_ , busy driving the one good thing in your life out of it. When will you give up on this preposterousness? Dr. Watson considers you his friend and you are toying with him. He is not one of your experiments, Sherlock. I know that friendship is an uncharted territory for you but you court danger on a daily basis. Surely, this should not be so difficult to navigate."

"You are missing the point as usual. This is not about what  _ **I**_  want."

" _Of course_ , how remiss of me. This is you being  _selfless_ and protecting him, isn't it? In all your asinine scheming, did it occur to you to TALK to him about how you feel?"

"There's nothing to talk about. He needs to leave. I'm making it happen."

"How about giving him a choice?"

"His choice is irrelevant. His safety comes first."

"How very dictatorial of you?"

"So are you the pot or the kettle today?"

"If I _really_ wanted to ensure your safety, Sherlock, I would have to lock you in a padded room for the rest of your life. You don't see me doing that now, do you?"

Sherlock snorted, "You would if you could. The only thing holding you back is the extremely high likelihood of me going insane with boredom within the week and slitting my wrists with my own teeth, which would probably defeat the whole purpose."

"Precisely," the sharp brown eyes bore into the blue-grey ones, as though trying to make a point. "So here _I_ , wielding the kind of power that I do am forced to watch you from a distance, forced to live in dread of the moment when I will get that call, telling me how your antics of the day have finally driven you to an early grave. You think letting you live your life the way you please, is _easy_?"

Mycroft took a deep breath to keep his voice in control.

"So  _please_  don't delude yourself into believing that you are doing this for Dr. Watson. You are certainly not fooling me. What you _are_ doing is taking the easy way out. A part of your subconscious knows that whatever turmoil this separation will entail would be temporary, as opposed to a long-term emotional investment. His being in danger hurt you, made you feel vulnerable and you hate that you now have a John Watson-sized chink in your armour against the world. So you are driving him away, cutting your losses.I have never known you to be a coward but I guess, there's always a first time."

If the barb had affected Sherlock at all, he gave no outward sign of it.

"Sod off, Mycroft. I don't need psychoanalysis… from you or anybody else. Sociopath, remember?"

"So this is the one time you choose to live up to society's expectations of you. You do realize that making Dr. Watson leave will not negate your time with him. You cannot simply go back to the way it was before."

The car had finally crawled to a stop in front of the flat. Sherlock moved to get out before the temptation to punch his brother in the nose overrode his common sense.

"One last thing, Sherlock." his voice became steely, "You will not use again."

Sherlock turned around, fists clenched, furious, "THAT is none of your bloody business."

"Oh, you will find that it is. If I find you doing drugs, either as a part of your sorry act or any other time, you won't have to worry about making Dr. Watson leave, because I will simply make him disappear. You know me well enough to know that this isn't an idle threat. Good day, brother."

In a detached corner of his mind, Sherlock wondered how much more slamming, the door to 221B would survive before it had to be replaced. Thankfully Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend, or she would have had to say something about it. He ignored the mess he had created in the living-room. He needed to think. Mycroft, as always, was right on both counts, the corpulent arse!

He had stood at this very spot, when he had stormed up the stairs, breathless and exhilarated at solving the code. When he had seen the yellow threat painted on the windows; it was as though the ground had dropped out from below his feet (funny how that expression had never made sense before), or like he was falling from a great height, or like being punched in the solar plexus with an iron fist. His brain had whited out, all his thoughts becoming background static to a litany of  _not John… not John… not John._ That was the first time in his life that he had realized that he had something to lose.

His body had been on auto-pilot going through the motions of finding a cab and reaching the address as deciphered through the code. He had felt dully relieved that he had solved it before realizing John had been kidnapped because his brain had refused to co-operate till he had heard his friend's voice echoing through the tunnel.

_Yes,_ this was self-preservation. If John continued to be his friend, sooner or later Sherlock would get him killed and that would destroy him.

So much for the chink in his armor when his brother was being the first in line to take advantage of it. Mycroft had known that letting John see him using drugs would be the logical next step and a sure fire success. Now that he had been forbidden from doing so (and he prided himself on knowing Mycroft well enough to know when he was being dead serious); he was going to have to be innovative.

Thankfully, John would not be returning till late evening. This was going to take some additional planning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for dragging the drama out but couldn't resist myself… there will definitely be some action in the next two bits…


	4. PLANNED AND UNPLANNED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of drug use...

 

It was late when John trudged back wearily, his steps becoming heavier as he neared the flat. Spending the day with Sarah had been soothing but they hadn't yet reached 'spending the night' stage. Besides, he had confided only half of what had been bothering him. He couldn't bring himself to cough up all the trivial things getting under his skin before talking to Sherlock about it first. He shook his head, huddling deeper in his jacket against the biting cold.  _Just talk it out without losing your temper,_  he instructed himself as he neared the flat.

As he opened the door to the flat and stepped into the foyer; he heard the sound of something being dropped upstairs. What was that oaf upto now?

He entered through the living room door to find Sherlock unmoving, stretched on the sofa as usual, back to the room. If John hadn't heard the noise; he would have thought that the Detective was asleep.

"I know you are awake, Sherlock, we need to talk."

Sherlock's answering voice was muffled by the sofa cushions, "I wasn't expecting you tonight. I assumed, you would prefer to stay over at Sarah's."

"Yes…well, as I said, I needed to talk to you." He decided to start with the good news. "As for today, Sarah agreed to let me have a replacement paycheck. So no harm done."

"Oh gooood…that's taken care of, then."

Muffled by the sofa, John had thought, but now he could hear the words slur. _What the hell!_

"Sherlock," his voice was sharp.

"Hmm… go away, Watson. We can talk in the morning."

Did he say  _Watson? B_ _loody hell!_

"Sherlock…LOOK AT ME. I said, turn around and look at me before I make you."

At these words Sherlock turned, his movements boneless like his muscles had turned to water to look up at John, now towering over the sofa and giggled, "Captain John Watson, SIR."

_Fuck no!_

His pupils were blown wide, the usually razor-sharp gaze completely unfocussed, his cheekbones two high points of colour. The dark curls were matted to his forehead with sweat. John yanked up the arm of the blue dressing gown to display fresh needle tracks on the smooth inner skin of the left elbow. He dropped the hand like it was on fire. Sherlock was high, that beautiful mind tainted with poison. He dropped to his knees, checking his pulse and respiration. His pulse-rate was fast but not life-threatening. John was surprised at his coherency, considering the pupil size, but there was tolerance to consider, not to mention that the drugs would probably not affect Sherlock the way they did your run-of-the-mill addict. He took Sherlock's face in his hands, the way his face had been held less than a week before in front of a freshly painted wall. His voice was urgent.

"Sherlock, you need to listen to me. What exactly did you take? When did you take it and how much?"

He shook his head out of John's hands. Incredibly, he was still giggling, "Oh come on John. I'm not ODing here, even you can see that. Just go awaaaay will you? Don't need you right now."

"Like hell you don't, if this is how you react to the first fight we have."

_"Oh please!"_ Even slurred, Sherlock's voice was dripping with disdain. "Don't flatter yourself, John…or me, for that matter," he added as an afterthought. You know this is just a habit, as though Lestrade's fake drugs bust hadn't been enough of a clue. Don't worry. You won't see me like this, the next time. I don't usually indulge myself in the flat. Just, leave me alone for tonight."

John forgot his intention to keep his temper in check. He exploded, "There won't bloody be a next time, Sherlock. I am your friend, and I won't stand by and watch you do this to yourself."

"FRIEND," Sherlock snorted. "I thought we were  _colleagues_ as you so succinctly pointed out to Seb."

"That was because he is an obnoxious git, who has no grasp of the concept of friendship."

At this Sherlock laughed- a high, cold, cutting, slap in your face kind of laugh.

"Seb has always been an obnoxious git, John, makes it easier to deal with him. _You_ on the other hand with your patience and platitudes and…presumptions are a bloody hindrance. Your interference over the last three weeks has made my work impossible. And thanks to your saintly behavior, I can't even tell you to GET THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE!"

John's answering voice was tight, "I …interfere in your work?… I saved your sorry arse."

At this, Sherlock stood up, swaying dangerously towering over the smaller man. He brought his hands together and clapped them hard, in a terrible parody of an applause, " _Well done, John!_ You were a right HERO, shooting an unarmed sixty-year old man; whose death left me with half a name to go on. Or would you like a bow for how you got Soo Lin killed, when you followed me instead of staying with her?"

Sherlock paused to observe the effect of his words, like bullets on a target. Outwardly there was nothing to see except a white face under the tan and the hand which had moved almost convulsively to clutch the thigh with the non-existent limp. This was how easy it was, to bring a proud Afghan war-veteran to his knees without any tangible weapons. What he himself was feeing at the moment, was part unendurable pain and part vicious pleasure. The pain of self-flagellation came with the knowledge that whatever hell John was bearing right now, he himself was suffering far more. The vicious pleasure came with the belief that he _deserved_ it.

He continued mercilessly, his voice like the riding-crop he held in his hands. "Your puppy-like devotion is _pathetic_. And now that you have conveniently convinced yourself that we are _friends_ ; you want to impose your pithy rules on me. You ask me to choose between you and a high as though that is a choice worth…" John's fist slammed into his left cheekbone, the sound cutting off his words with finality and dropping him back on the sofa like a stone. By the time he looked around, John was gone, the thud of the door to his room being slammed reverberating in his ears.

John didn't even make it to his bed. His leg gave out as soon as the door to his room shut; the phantom pain back with a vengeance. He slid to the floor, his back to the door, head held in his hands. He had never felt so lost, so wrong-footed in his entire life. He wasn't naïve. He had always known that his actions couldn't always be strictly right or wrong. But he had never had an occasion to regret his actions. In the army, he had taken lives but saved quite a lot more. He felt guilty, both for the killings and the lives he had been unable to save, the nightmares were a proof of that. But he had never faced a moral dilemma when he had to ACT.

He had been so sure that shooting the cabbie had been the right thing to do. He hadn't even paused to consider whether Sherlock was worth killing for, never questioned that Sherlock may neither need nor want his protection or friendship.

_All lies!_ There was no bond, no friendship, just conjurations of his sick mind, which had been starved of purpose after being invalided home. He was a thorn in Sherlock's side, being tolerated for the sake of propriety and a sense of misplaced obligation.

And poor Soo Lin, her death HAD been his fault. But the hindsight didn't make him regret his actions. Even if he had paused to choose between her and Sherlock, he would still have run out leaving her behind.

But given the choice, Sherlock, would choose a high over him, any day.

_So what do you do now, Captain John Watson, R.A.M.C. veteran? You have gone and fallen for a man who is not even capable of friendship, much less love. You are ready to kill for him, probably die for him, and he notices your existence, only to tolerate you. What do you do now?_

Thankfully, John was a practical man with no illusions of being extraordinary enough to change Sherlock Holmes. He had to leave. He had to get away, as far as possible from Sherlock. It was the only way.

 

* * *

 

He sat there for what felt like a long time, finding no strength to move when he first heard the dull thud from downstairs. Not his concern any longer, he reminded himself. That was followed by an almighty crash that jolted John to his feet. As he opened the door, he heard raised voices- one, no, two voices, that were not Sherlock. They didn't sound friendly, home invasion at midnight, unlikely to be friendly.

He silently walked back into his room to retrieve his gun, army knife and his phone. He tiptoed down and peered around the banister to find both the landing doors shut with no one outside. The voices were too muffled to make out what was being said. He came down the stairs and saw that there was no look-out in the foyer. His breath caught as the door to the stairs shuddered with the unmistakable sound of someone being thrown against it. He viciously quashed his first instinct to rush inside, gun blazing. He had no idea exactly how many they were, or what weapons they had… stupid heroics would only get them both killed.

He withdrew to Sherlock's bedroom while dialing Lestrade, and cursing himself internally for having no way of contacting Mycroft. Although Sherlock would have probably considered it rank treachery.  _No he wouldn't,_ John reminded himself _. Treason can be committed only when there is an expectation of loyalty,_  he shook his head, noting his rock-steady hand and now pain-free leg.  _Snap out of it Watson,_  he ordered himself. _Get out of this mess alive, with Sherlock. There will be plenty of time for torturing yourself later._

Unsurprisingly, on a late Sunday night, Lestrade's answering voice was thick with sleep.

"Hello."

John spoke rapidly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is John Watson, Sherlock's flat-mate. You need to listen very carefully as I won't be repeating myself. We have had a break-in at the flat about twenty minutes ago by two, possibly more men. They have locked themselves in the living room with Sherlock."

He could here Lestrade moving already, the sound of a cupboard door being yanked open. "I was in my room at the time. I don't know who they are or what weapons they have, but from the sounds of it, they are knocking him around pretty badly. Haul your ass down here ASAP." He hesitated before adding, "Lestrade, you should know, when I had seen Sherlock less than an hour before, he had been high."

"Jesus!" Lestrade swore. "But they didn't search the flat for anyone else? Your landlady?"

"Out for the weekend."

"Thank God for small favours. They sound like amateurs."

John didn't think that was a cause for celebration. Amateurs were jittery _and_ thought with their guns. Amateurs got people killed.

"John!" There was a warning note in Lestrade's voice now. "I will be there in less than fifteen minutes. Don't do anything stupid. If you can leave the flat safely, do that. If not, try to remain inconspicuous. You don't know how armed they are  or what they could be capable of. You don't want to barge in there and end up turning a fist-fight into a gunfight. Just, wait for us!"

So much for their 'who killed the cabbie' bit.

"You are wasting time. Don't worry about me. Just get here." He cut the call and switched the phone off. He hated doing that to Lestrade, who was a good man and a good cop, Sherlock's bias against the Yard notwithstanding. Of course, he was going to take his advice and walk away but not right now. They had to hold the fort for fifteen minutes. Sherlock may not want his help, but he was especially vulnerable right now and needed it. His decision had already been made for him, just as during all those times before. He never really had a choice.

Breaking the door open was not an option. Creating a distraction to lure them out was tempting, but if this was an exercise in revenge, it might just force them to act faster. He debated keeping the gun but amateur or not, they would search him, so he thrust it under Sherlock's mattress. The knife would have to do.

Then, nerves singing with adrenaline, he crossed the landing in four easy steps and calmly knocked three times on the door.


	5. FIFTEEN  MINUTES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slight, non-explicit, non-con in this chapter...

If Sherlock had ever wanted to conduct an experiment on the complete uselessness of human emotions, his present circumstances were giving him excellent data for the same. He should have heard these morons before they had picked the lock on the front door. Had he been in full possession of his mental faculties, he would have alerted Lestrade and his brother AND made a cup of tea in the time these idiots had made it up the stairs. As it was, thanks to his self induced plus emotional, visual and aural impairment respectively, he had been hard pressed to see the fist before it had crashed against his cheek (thankfully the other side).  His first instinct had been to shout for help but the next instant reminded him, how he had had forfeited that right barely an hour ago. So he settled for crashing the coffee table to the floor as a warning to John.   
  
His vision was still blurry. There was an hour to go before the mydriatic wore off completely. He hadn’t actually taken drugs but the blurry vision combined with the 3:1 ratio to his attackers meant that any attempt to put up a fight would have caused him more damage than he could have hoped to inflict. That hadn’t stopped him. 

No.1 was sure to be nursing a black eye, while the second man had bent over wheezing when his knee had connected with a groin. He concentrated on his breathing, ignoring the sharp pain that arose from his ribs- bruised, most likely. His head was throbbing but he had not lost consciousness. He had a bloody nose and a split lip. His left wrist had certainly been broken when he had been flung against the door- all in all, a bit not good. 

Thankfully John had already gone up to his room. By now, he must be out of the apartment alerting Lestrade. Any residual regret for the showdown earlier was being eclipsed by a sense of relief, for that must have made it easier for John to walk away. He had been tied up securely and flung down to lie horizontally on the sofa. He had struggled but the plastic cable-ties binding his wrists and ankles had no give. He had resigned himself to waiting for the cavalry, hoping that this lot wasn’t smart enough to just kill him instantly. In the meantime, he was already cataloguing all the information being supplied by his other senses.   
  
From what he could see, all the three were dressed in black with ski masks covering their faces. No.1 – the man who had attacked him first, height six feet, four inches, built like a prizefighter, four rings on each hand which included the thumb. He was wearing a leather jacket but there was a distinctive smell of gasoline about his clothes, so works in a garage, hard callused hands, were used to manual labour- most likely had a record. Entangling with No.2 confirmed his hypothesis of the two belonging to the same gang; as he was similarly dressed, down to the rings. Additional data in support of it was how they were working in tandem on him wordlessly. So they probably did this (i.e. roughing people up) on a regular basis. Brainless hired thugs without initiative or intelligence, hence no attempt to search the flat for witnesses. How pedestrian!   
  
That made the third person (5 feet 6 inches) who had stood back and not participated in the initial proceedings, infinitely more interesting. He had stood back observing in silence until No.1 had flung Sherlock against the door, at which a new voice had snapped at him, “Careful, I need him conscious.”

  
The voice had been low, cultured, commanding and most surprisingly, female.

Sherlock mentally chided himself.    
_Statistically more likely my ass…there is always something..._ then his next thought had been-  _I know that voice._   
  
Something about the helplessness of his situation prompted him to speak up.”To what do I owe this pleasure? I would have been better prepared for company, had I been expecting it.”

He was rewarded for his cheek with a punch to his face, which had him spitting blood. A gag was roughly forced into his mouth. Deceptively quiet footsteps approached the sofa. The closer she came, the less he could focus. She knelt, till the shape of her face was at his level. Suddenly strong hands were holding him down from behind, such that his face was turned towards her. She placed her hand on his head, gently caressing his curls, sending a cold shiver of fear down his spine. Fear, which even the hulking goons had been unable to inspire. She was very close now. Her lips uncovered by the ski mask grazed his earlobe and Sherlock recoiled instinctively. 

Her whispered voice was like silk draped over the sharpened edge of a butcher knife. “What I don’t understand, Sherlock, is how did you fool yourself into thinking that we were through? You are responsible for my brother being locked away for life.” Her voice was tinged with regret, “Actions have consequences, darling.” Her hand fisted in his hair yanking his head back sharply as he suppressed a moan.

She dropped a leisurely kiss on his throat. It took all of Sherlock’s self-control to hold himself rigid, to give no reaction. She gave a low husky laugh as she released him and moved back to make room for the muscle. “Pack him up, boys.”   
  
Suddenly there were three loud knocks on the door followed by John’s exasperated voice, ”Holmes! You idiot! If you have broken the coffee table for an experiment again, I WILL KILL YOU.” This was followed by fists banging on the door, ”Open up, you wanker.”   
  
If Sherlock had thought that he had already experienced too much emotion for one night, he was wrong. What he felt at that moment was an overwhelming sense of relief that John hadn’t simply left him followed immediately by mind-numbing, heart-stopping panic. His first reaction was to try and shout through the gag in his mouth, then berating himself , as his mind registered how John had addressed him; his ‘Holmes’ as fake as Sherlock’s earlier ‘Watson’ had been. He froze as the repercussions of the data hit him.    
  
_JOHN KNEW!_   
  
The bloody bastard knew there was danger, and he was literally walking into it.   
  
The would-be kidnappers had already taken their positions. She had moved behind the door. No.1 had yanked Sherlock up and placed a knife at his throat while No. 2 had moved to open the door. He pulled the door open while simultaneously grabbing John by his shirt and yanking him inside. In the next moment, John had grabbed his attacker’s hand with his left, twisted it roughly and in one fluid motion used his knees to take the man’s legs out form under him while wrapping his right hand around his neck in a chokehold. John would have dropped him right there, but there was a definite sound of a gun being cocked at the back of his head, followed by a woman’s voice, ”You really don’t want to be doing that.”

  
His eyes fastened on the knife at his flat-mate’s throat. He released the man, who sputtered to his feet, then landed a roundhouse to John’s solar-plexus causing him to double over in pain.   
  
_No! No! No!_ Sherlock struggled against his bonds and the gag wordlessly, like a fish out of water, causing the knife held at his throat to slice his skin repeatedly. All anger at John was forgotten, replaced by a cold fury.  _When he got free, he would..._

__  
At a sharp command from her, the thug holding him dropped him on the sofa and left through the door that John had entered for a belated search for more occupants.  
  
He looked up to see the woman, her face covered by a ski mask, holding the gun- a Sig Sauer on him. Her hand was rock-steady and the way she held the gun showed that she meant business. He had yet to recover his breath, when the man he had almost taken down roughly hauled him up, patted his torso down and then proceeded to truss him up like a Christmas turkey, tying him to his usual chair. After making sure that he couldn’t move, John saw him give a nod to the woman who pocketed the gun and walked up to him.  
  
“Now what do we have here?  _Sherlock!_ ” There was a pout in her voice now. "You naughty man, you never told me that you liked boys too.” John didn’t bother to correct her.  _Four_   _minutes down,_   _eleven to go..._ He stoically stared back at the deadened blue eyes, as he addressed her, “And you are…?”  
  
“Unimportant, darling, just like you! So sorry to wake you up,” she said, sounding considerate, like a perfect hostess. The second man returned. “There’s no one else here.”  
  
He looked at Sherlock, looking worse for the wear but conscious and lucid, his bright eyes fixed on John. The sofa was too far away to make out his pupil-size. John looked away, not wanting to be distracted by a mixture of concern and residual anger, noting the closed windows with the drawn curtains. He coolly regarded the woman with the gun, the unmistakable leader, who was again speaking to him. “You shouldn’t have interrupted us, you know. We were just going to take off with Sherlock here but now that you have crashed the party, it is definitely going to be more fun!”  
  
There was a sudden sound from the sofa as Sherlock finally succeeded in spitting his gag out. His voice was hoarse. “Leave him alone, Catherine. He's just my flat-mate. He has nothing to do with this.”  
  
At these words, ‘Catherine’ turned to Sherlock, pulling off her mask as she did. “Very clever, Sherry. It was the kiss that did it, wasn’t it?” her voice was sickeningly nostalgic. With a herculean effort, John stifled his surprise and disgust at her words   _(she kissed him!)_ , as he studied her. 

At any other time and place, he would have thought her uncommonly beautiful with her silver blond hair, startling blue eyes and aristocratic features. It was the expression in her eyes that spoiled his estimate. Those eyes had no business being present on a living face. Somehow, it wasn’t surprising that his flat-mate’s...   _ex-girlfriend?_  was a homicidal maniac. It did explain the whole ‘married to my work’ bit.  
   
Sherlock’s answering voice was matter-of-fact, ”I knew it was you, with the first word you spoke and may I add that I had absolutely no wish of being reminded of our painful last encounter, during which, I had tried my level best, to _not_ kiss you.”  
   
“No? Her incredulous voice was like melted butter. “But you did say you loved me, so you can hardly fault me for my attempt.” Her voice morphed suddenly and she was spitting venom like a serpent, "Of course, that was before I knew you were using me to prove my brother’s guilt.”  
   
John felt uncharacteristically relieved at her words. Now _that_ made a lot more sense.  
   
“Both of your guilt,” Sherlock’s voice was mild. “You don’t have to be modest, dear. You were the grand architect, after all. Your brother was just the executioner.”  
   
“Shut up!”  Her voice was feral, no trace of a lady left in its syllables. ”Don’t you dare mention my brother?”  
   
Sherlock’s voice drove on, oblivious to John’s unspoken plea to listen to the unhinged woman with the gun, just for once. He was ignored as usual.  
   
“Hard to imagine, _you_ feeling guilty… you left him to rot in prison after all. Your insanity plea was a stroke of genius. Although, I cannot see how a high security psychiatric institute is that much different from jail. Out of curiosity, how did you escape?”  
   
John had held his tongue while following the conversation, because he understood that Sherlock was speaking mainly for his benefit, giving him ‘data’. So he remained quiet even now as he watched the woman cross to Sherlock (probably to snog him again). As long as her gun stayed out of sight, he was fine.  _Six minutes more,_ he prayed.  
   
She crouched once more near Sherlock causing him to visibly squirm backwards into the sofa. Her hand resumed its soft stroking of his hair. Her voice was dangerously low. “Wouldn't you like to know my secret? After all, you   _will_ be ending up in there when I am through with you.” Her eyes flicked from Sherlock’s face, to the skull on the mantelpiece to the fresh track marks on his hand as she fingered them almost lovingly.  
   
John saw the involuntary tremor that passed through Sherlock’s frame at her touch and he suddenly realised that he wasn’t fine anymore. “DON’T touch him!” he yelled. She swivelled her head to look at him just as Sherlock clamped his eyes tight shut and John instinctively knew that he had made things a lot worse.  
   
“Well, well, jealous, aren’t we? How about suffering in silence?” He had almost forgotten the goon standing behind him who stepped forward and gagged him. Her eyes were still on him, cataloguing his reactions as her hand now travelled downwards over Sherlock’s body, feather-light, flicking aside the fold of his dressing gown and now it was John’s turn to look away in revulsion.   
 _Where the fucking hell was Lestrade_?  
   
Suddenly, an incongruous buzzing filled the room. Catherine gave an annoyed sigh at the interruption before retrieving the phone from her trouser pocket. She didn’t seem to recognise the number. “Hello,” her answering voice was sharp.  
   
On hearing the voice on the other end of the line, John saw her face crumple, the kind of expression he had seen on the faces of plenty of young soldiers, who knew they were about to die. It was pure unadulterated fear.

  
“YOU!” Her voice shook in answer. Even Sherlock opened his eyes on hearing the change.  
   
“Yes, he is alive.” She stood up abruptly, her free hand now clenched at her side. John could see that her face looked like she very much wanted to smash her phone against the wall. Her voice had told him that she wouldn’t dare.  
   
“But Professor!” she interrupted petulantly. Whoever it was at the other end didn’t let her continue.  
   
She deflated visibly, closing her eyes, “Yes, I know I can trust you.”  
   
Sherlock’s eyes were huge. He looked as stumped as John felt, which was definitely a first. She ended the call and ordered the goons to go and get the transport ready. She gazed ruefully at Sherlock, ”Talk about having friends in low places. Looks like I wont be able to have my share of fun.” Noting the relief in John’s face, she smirked, “I don’t know what you did to tick off the devil but I can promise you that by the time he is done with you, you will wish it was me." The grotesque smile was back. "And who knows? If I am very very lucky, I might get to watch!”  
   
“As for you,” she continued, pinning John with the gaze of a hungry predator that had been denied its meal. ”He said nothing about not hurting you. Don’t worry, Sherry, I will make it quick and painless…for old times sake.” She got up, her hand moving to the gun at her hip.  
   
“NO!” Sherlock roared as he flung himself off the sofa violently, landing squarely on the shattered remains of the glass table. She calmly walked up to John, but stopped and watched in wicked delight as he dragged himself across the broken glass. He however had eyes only for John, who was staring at him mutely horrified. Even as he struggled, Sherlock knew it was futile. Yet he crawled, uncaring how the glass was cutting him open; knowing that watching him in pain was giving her pause. There was blood everywhere but the gun was still at her hip and not in her hand, so he pushed himself ahead, ignoring the silent plea mixed with wonder, in his friend’s eyes at Sherlock’s actions; so different from his words uttered in this very room barely an hour ago.  
   
In the next frozen instant, all hell broke loose. Both the windows to the living room burst inwards simultaneously in a shower of glass, followed by a whistling sound as two furiously smoking projectiles sailed into the room. The first whiff made Sherlock dizzy; conclusion-some sort of chemical agent, not just tear-gas. He tried to hold his breath but the depleted blood in his body was not allowing him to do so.  His head swam as he tried to see through the real and chemical smoke obscuring his vision, fighting unconsciousness, hoping desperately for the tell-tale sound of a body dropping to the floor.  
   
BANG  
   
 _I killed John_ … was the final reverberating thought in his head as he was mercifully dragged under.

 


	6. REASONS

“John!”   
  
_Was he in a tunnel?_   
  
“JOHN… come on.”   
  
He tried to speak, to reach out to the disembodied voice, but it felt like struggling to surface while drowning. No words came out, so he settled for a huge gasping breath and found that he was able to open his eyes.   
  
“Good… that’s right…breathe.” The voice had a face now and the face was familiar….   
Bit by bit, he could feel the sensation returning in his hands and face. There was an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. All of a sudden he was assaulted by a cacophony of noise. His eyes widened, as he heard rather than saw that there were a lot of people in the room. He struggled weakly without remembering why, as steady hands grasped his shoulders, holding him.   
“Look at me, John. You’re ok. It’s ok. Don’t panic...just breathe. You need to get that gas out of your system.”   
  
John closed his eyes against the overload of sensations, focusing on the calm voice, which he now recognized as Lestrade’s, trying to recall the events that had led up to this.   
Within seconds his eyes flew open with a fresh gasp, “SHERLOCK!” Lestrade’s face was creased in worry and he wouldn’t answer, but John didn’t need him to. There was a muted beeping that he could now hear, over and above other sounds.   
  
“Help me up”, he demanded.   
  
“I don’t really think that’s a good idea…”   
  
“Right now Lestrade…or so help me God…”   
  
“Alright, you stubborn arse.” Lestrade swung an arm to support his shoulder, practically lifting John into a sitting position, where he was cradled against his chest. What he saw made him curse his weakness. Sherlock was lying unconscious on a stretcher wearing an oxygen mask like him, covered in blood, his pallor enhanced to such a degree, that he looked like a corpse. Three paramedics were frantically working over him, their efforts underlined by the heart monitor, which was beeping erratically. He made to move towards the prone form, but the sum of all his efforts was to slump back against Lestrade’s shoulder breathing heavily.  _What the hell had been in that gas?_ He started to determinedly make a second attempt, when Lestrade restrained him gently, “Listen to me John. They are helping him. Take it easy for now. You are in no condition to treat him. Let them do their job.” John prayed, listening to his own heartbeat stutter with the monitor. In an effort to calm himself, he focused on Lestrade, only to notice the bruise on his temple followed by the expression on his face.   
  
“I guess I owe you an apology.”   
  
“You are ex-military, John. I know you were concerned for him, but  **_what_ **  tactical advantage were you giving us by doubling the number of hostages?”   
  
“He was helpless, Lestrade.”   
  
“And it wouldn’t be the first and the last time. Following him down the rabbit-hole every time will only get you killed.”   
  
“Only way people like you and me will get to see Wonderland. Besides, it’s worth it.”   
  
Lestrade was looking at him incredulously with a half smile on his face. “We need to have this conversation when you’re sober.”   
  
The heartbeat had grown reassuringly steady. There were two bags of fluids already running into Sherlock. They were readying to lift the stretcher. John could see Donovan and two other plainclothes cops. The remaining five people wore non-descript suits. Thankfully, Catherine had already been removed.   
  
“Knock-out gas…snipers?”He enquired, as he found that he was able to sit up on his own.   
  
“That wasn’t us. We had just taken her musclemen into custody, when this lot showed up. The stooges said that you two were unhurt, so they risked the gas.”   
  
“Let me guess, some big-shot government official in a three-piece suit and an umbrella…”   
  
“A  liaison from the M.O.D. actually. Took custody of Miss Adair… we had very little to do once they got here”. Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. ”Please tell me Sherlock is NOT blackmailing some high ranking Government Official on the side.”   
  
“He wishes”, John snorted feebly. He hauled himself up with Lestrade’s support, his eyes following the stretcher as it was carried out. They were both alive…   
  
The journey to the hospital was a blur. Lestrade could not accompany him, as he had a crime scene to secure. Against all his protests, he was ushered to an examination room for a complete check-up, before being declared fit to leave. He made his way to information, to be told that Sherlock was in surgery. He decided to wait in the waiting area and made his way there, only to find Mycroft sitting patiently and looking completely out of place. He smiled at John across the room, and unlike his earlier oily, unctuous attempts, this was genuine, somehow human. For the first time John glimpsed a kindred spirit in Mycroft. He collapsed on the adjacent chair, eyes on the doors leading to the operative area. He felt very tired. Mycroft did not look at him as he reeled off, “Three bruised ribs, broken left wrist and myriad cuts from the glass, most serious effect of which was a punctured femoral artery. I thought you would want to know.” His voice became contrite, “My apologies at being unable to reach you sooner, Dr. Watson.”   
  
John gave a tired half-smile. “I guess, this is my cue to say how surprised I am to have received your help at all, but somehow I am not. So… where were you?”   
  
“I was where I could be useful.”  _(Translation: couldn’t just stand and watch my brother bleed to death)_ . Mycroft cleared his throat before continuing... “Catherine Adair, sister to Ronald Adair. You must certainly have heard of him.”   
  
John’s voice was incredulous, “THE Ronald Adair; the nutter who killed his parents and his godfather brutally in the course of a single evening, for his inheritance.” That had been a shocking, highly publicized murder that had happened before he had enlisted.   
  
Mycroft continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “Adair Senior had been a Lord; the godfather Huntington, an M.P. It looked like an obvious robbery gone wrong. A petty criminal had already been arrested, all evidence at the scene linking him to the crime. It was an open and shut case with immense pressure on the Yard for prompt results. The brother-sister duo had been the picture-perfect grieving aristocratic family, completely above suspicion, with solid alibis. They had counted on the hue and cry to hurry the trial along.”   
  
His voice now held a hint of pride. “What they hadn’t counted on; was the falsely convicted man being smart enough to contact my brother for help. Sherlock had been in rehab at the time, at the insistence of a particularly stubborn DSI.”   
  
_Good old Lestrade_ , John thought fondly.   
  
The pride in Mycroft’s voice was very real now. “He solved the case while  **_in_ **  rehab. He proved to Lestrade that the man they had arrested had definitely  **_not_ **  committed the murders.”   
  
He could almost hear his flat-mate’s baritone.   _This is Angelo. Three years ago I proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking._   
  
“Following on the steps of that, on deeper investigation the alibi given by the Adairs fell apart. The circumstantial evidence against them led to their arrest. However, without tangible proof, no one was going to take the word of a recovering junkie over two supposedly respectable members of the society. Catherine Adair had a history of mental illness going back to her childhood. She was deemed unfit for prison and transferred to a psych centre for the duration of the trial.”   
  
_That was where she met Sherlock_ , thought John, as one more piece of the jigsaw clicked into place.   
  
Mycroft looked appreciatively at John. “Sherlock saw it as a golden opportunity. He cultivated a faux relationship with Miss Adair, so that he could get close enough to find any evidence. Mind you, solely her confession was worthless in view of her mental instability. What he did manage to uncover, was the existence of a diary, with the entire plan detailed in Catherine’s own handwriting; written a month in advance of the actual crime. It was the proverbial nail in their coffin. In light of this new evidence, Ronald Adair pleaded guilty for all the three murders; but shielded his sister, claiming to have manipulated her instead of the other way round. He got a double life sentence, while she was indefinitely incarcerated at the institute. Following the case, DSI Lestrade was promoted; and the most favorable outcome that even I couldn’t have predicted was that Sherlock, after being released then, hasn’t touched drugs since.”   
He paused and turned to hold John’s eyes.” **_Although,_ ** he  **_has_ **  been trying his level best to convince you of an addiction that no longer persists. The track marks were a nice touch! I did tell you that he loves to be dramatic.”   
  
John shook his head wearily, “I saw him, Mr. Holmes.”   
  
Mycroft showed what looked like an obscenely expensive mobile to John. On the screen were the results of Sherlock’s tox screen.   
  
“And yet his blood work shows no trace of any recreational substances. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”   
  
John swallowed visibly as he remembered the blown pupils, the slurred speech, the marks.  _All an act…why?_ He closed his eyes, holding his head in his hands as his mind whirled.  _The drugs…the fight…his decision to leave…the intruders…his decision to stay…Sherlock bound yet crawling towards his chair covered in blood…too much to process…too bloody much._ He felt trapped in this emotional roller-coaster. His rational mind was telling him he should be angry; while all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, which seeped into his tone as he voiced the one thing that made sense of all the madness. “He  **_wants_ **  me to leave.”   
  
“And I wouldn’t blame you if you did”, said Mycroft softly. “What happened yesterday; or the events that transpired a week ago, are what passes for Sherlock’s life now. This life is his new addiction…and while we may both agree that it is better than cocaine; any addiction is inherently evil. It eventually consumes a man, destroys him.” There was nothing but calm acceptance in Mycroft’s eyes.   
  
“I would say, that being kidnapped on the first day of my acquaintance with Sherlock, to meet an archenemy in a warehouse had been warning enough. Besides, if Sherlock doesn’t want me, what I think about his life, or whether I wish to continue our living arrangement is immaterial.” His voice became self-deprecating. “After last night, even I have to agree with him. My presence made things far worse.” He felt a white-hot surge of guilt as he relived the memory of Sherlock voluntarily throwing himself over the jagged glass. He had been responsible for the femoral bleed, not Catherine. His hero complex had almost got both of them killed.   
  
 “Miss Adair is a psychopath, Dr. Watson. From what I understood while interrogating her, she wanted to kidnap my brother and torture him to insanity. Your timely interruption stopped that from happening. So you will forgive me if I feel nothing but gratitude towards you. As for what you truly mean to Sherlock; let’s just say that for the first time in my life, I find my brother thinking of someone else before himself, albeit in his own warped manner.”   
  
Mycroft held up a hand before John could start defending the ‘sociopath’ label. “I know what you will say. He does risk his life for complete strangers on a daily basis. But helping people is merely a side-effect of his addiction to the puzzle; not his real motive. He suddenly has to cope with what it means to have a friend. He is also smart enough to know that he will be the death of you someday; and considering the bullet that my men dug out of the wall, opposite to the chair you had been restrained in, that day could very well have been today… So the real question is, what do YOU want, Dr. Watson?”   
  
John looked into the brown eyes, so unlike Sherlock’s and yet so uncannily alike in the piercing nature of their gaze. He smiled at him, and watched the apprehension behind the gaze melt away. “You can call me John, Mr. Holmes.”   
  
Mycroft’s smile was a study in relief. “I would prefer Mycroft myself, John.”   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________   
  
  
Awareness came in fits and starts; the drowsiness like a shivering curtain just about to lift. He could hear sounds that should mean something; but a voice in his head seems to be dominating the rest.  _You don’t want to wake up_ , it told him. As usual he couldn't blindly obey instructions, even those from inside his own head. He rebelled against the voice. It was panicking now… _you can’t._ Of course he can, he had to…John must be worried sick by now. At that thought, all the synapses in his brain sizzled at once as though a live wire had been thrust inside his skull. He heard the sound of the gunshot going off in his head. The curtain was torn to shreds as awareness clawed through…   
Suddenly all the distant sounds were overwhelming… a slow dripping, a frantic beeping. In the next instant his body caught up with his horrified mind; and he was gasping and flailing and shouting something over and over. The voice had been right. John was dead. He had no right waking up in a world where he had let that happen. A world where John would never grin at him, or speak to him or call him…   
  
“Sherlock…SHERLOCK… you IDIOT! Will you just open your eyes?”   
  
He froze, eyes snapping open involuntarily. Deep blue eyes were staring into his own, inches from his face. He realized that he was being held down by two firm hands, so he couldn’t move an inch.   
  
“Sherlock, it’s me, John”, he was saying slowly, very carefully, his eyes underscoring the words. “I am  **_not_ **  dead… I am very much alive. Just calm down.  **_I…am… fine_ ** . You need to relax, or you will pull out your stitches.”   
  
A minute passed as the beeping of the heart monitor slowly settled, but John didn’t dare blink or slacken his grip. Finally Sherlock found his voice, though it sounded rather small. “Thank you for stating the obvious as usual, John. Now if you will be so kind as to let go of me…”   
  
He watched as the worry in his friend’s eyes was chased away, successively by relief, then annoyance. Yet by the time he let go of Sherlock’s shoulders, and sat back, he was smirking. “Well Genius Detective, it was not so obvious about two minutes ago was it? Apparently your near-death deductions are crap.” His eyes sobered as he added, “So let’s just avoid those, shall we?”   
  
He got up and stretched, as though he had been sitting for a long time and moved to the door to call the nurse, when Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “John…wait…can you just…be here…for now?”   
  
At those words John felt many snappy retorts at the tip of his tongue, but his eyes fell on Sherlock’s face and he controlled the urge to use them. One look at the monitors showed that his vitals were fine. He had already demonstrated that his memory and motor functions were unaffected. The nurse could wait. He sighed and went back to the chair, dropping his hands loosely on the bed as he sat back down. Sherlock’s eyes never left him as his uninjured hand snaked out to grab John’s wrist and hold it firmly, feeling the pulse beating below his fingers.  It was then that John saw the contours of his face truly relax, almost blissfully, despite the broken nose and the split lip. He closed his eyes, not letting go of his hand as he did so. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.   
  
John sighed again as he used his free hand to pull the chair closer to the bed. He pillowed his head on his free elbow on the bed, as he prepared to settle for the night.


	7. FOLIE à DEUX

John wasn’t speaking to him.

It had been two whole days since he had fallen asleep holding his hand. The reasons for such an illogical action still eluded him. Even now when he woke up after every drug induced slumber, he was afraid to open his eyes before hearing John move in his chair or talk. Stupid…irrational…illogical…

But whenever he had woken up John had been there; silently keeping vigil, his expression indecipherable.

In these two days, John had only spoken to him to ask if he needed anything, or while helping him to the attached bathroom. Thankfully his brother had restrained himself from making an appearance. The doctors were tapering off his painkillers, which was also contributing to his irritability. The cherry on the top had been Lestrade; who had finally decided that it was high time, and had dropped in to record his statement. John had opted to wait outside. He had been very short with Lestrade, snapping short answers and sulking. But the DI was nothing if not experienced in dealing with him.

“So you have no information about this mystery caller’ other than the fact that Catherine Adair called him ‘Professor’?”

“If you ask me that same question one more time, Lestrade, I will make you regret it sorely the next time you organize a press conference.”

When Lestrade had finally shut the recorder off along with the DI persona, his face held nothing but concern.  
“Alright Sherlock, new question…mind telling me why Dr. Watson thought you were high, on the night of the attack?”

“I am clean, as my blood work undoubtedly showed you.”

“That was not my question.”

“However, that is my answer. That is all you need to concern yourself with.”

“Sherlock!” His voice rose, the way it had during the fake drugs-bust. That particular nuance in his voice always made him feel like a truant child sitting in the Principal’s office. Even Mycroft was not able to do that.

He did not know what particular expression was on his face right now, but Lestrade’s voice softened as he continued, “You fooled a Doctor, a good man, into thinking you were drugged. He walked into that room because you needed him. That showed implicit trust even when he thought you were a drug-addled junkie; and you broke it. I know that it should be none of my concern since you didn’t break any laws. I also know that you probably are the smartest git on the planet and you probably had your reasons. I just hope they were darned good ones.”

Sherlock had no answer….

By the time Lestrade left, he knew enough to realize what was gnawing at him beneath the veneer of anger and irritation. John was going to leave him. It would not be because of his habits, his personality, or the back to back hostage scenarios, but because he felt betrayed.

You wanted it, he told himself savagely. But he didn’t feel the euphoria of reaching a goal. He felt…hollow. While putting all his devious plans in motion, he had not taken time to contemplate life without John; one minute of which had sent him into a full-fledged panic attack. You felt guilty, that’s it… you’ve known him only for three weeks; get a grip on yourself, his rational mind was chiding him.  
John was leaving. The only reason he was still here was because he was too much of a gentleman to do so when Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed.

As the mere possibility took very real shape in his mind, he found it had become very difficult to breathe. There was no heart monitor to betray him this time. His rational side was disappointed; another panic attack, how dull! He suddenly wanted to sit up and put his head between his knees; something he hadn’t done since he had been six years old. But he couldn’t move. So he was reduced to writhing on the bed, trying to shrug his bedclothes off. That was the moment John chose to enter the room. He took one look at his face and was instantly at his side; hand on his wrist checking his dressings, face wrinkling in concern.

“Sherlock”, his voice was urgent. “What happened? Does something hurt more?”

His pride made it easy to mask the fear with anger, which coloured his tone, “Why are you still here?”

John’s face closed off again. “We can talk about that later.”

“And when would that be?” His voice was sarcastic. “Tomorrow… the day after… or the day of my discharge maybe. I mean, why bother? You are probably already packed. Why the show of sticking around?”

“Well, technically, I would have been packed AND gone by now, if your psychopathic ex-girlfriend hadn’t shown up.”

“She was not… that doesn’t matter. You want to leave… just go.”

“Okay, sorry to point out the obvious, but I never wanted to leave. You wanted to make me leave. So why the bloody hell are you upset?”

“I am not upset.”

“You have a pulse rate of 120. You are sweating bullets and your breathing is one step shy of hyperventilation. Unless you have taken a sympathomimetic again, like you had before, in order to fool me…”

Sherlock winced at the reminder. “I’m in pain.”

“If you say so”, he turned away bitterly.

“John…”

“No!” He whirled on Sherlock, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to use that tone with me. You manipulated me, Sherlock. I’m not your bloody puppet. You made me question every decision I made, since meeting you. You convinced me that I was an unwanted burden. I had thought that being invalided home had been the lowest point of my life and you proved me wrong with your little stunt; made me feel completely worthless. Well done…”

“I WAS WRONG, ALRIGHT”, his voice broke. "I was wrong…I’m sorry…” Sherlock closed his eyes defeated.

“I guess, twelfth time is the charm.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. There was no trace of anger, either in John’s face or voice. Instead there was a playful smile lifting the corners of his lips. What! He was nonplussed.

“For a man who never apologizes, your first time was quite something. You managed to say ‘I’m sorry John’ eleven times when you came to, two days back; before you realized I was not dead.”

“You…you…” Sherlock Holmes found himself speechless for the first time in his life.

“But that was you, hopped up on painkillers and guilt. So, this one gets to be the first.”  
He was staring at John, as though seeing him for the first time.

“Yes, this was an act and you deserved it. Lucky for you, a sincere apology was all I wanted. Lucky for you, I’m the kind of man who believes that actions speak louder than words.” His eyes darkened as they swept over the superficial cuts on Sherlock’s neck. “And most importantly, lucky for me, that being as smart as you are, you realized how incredibly stupid you were.”

Oh! That was low! “It wasn’t stupid of me to want to keep you safe.”

John sat down on the bed, raising the head-end as he did, so they were facing each other.  
“Okay… ground rules. You are not keeping me. I’m staying because I want to; because you are a brilliant, insane man who makes my life a living hell on a daily basis, but it’s never boring. My reasons may be suspect, but they are my reasons. I frankly have no idea why you want me to stay; but the day you decide you don’t need a flat-mate, you come talk to me. I won’t question you; I’ll leave. But you don’t get to decide what I want or need; what I should think or do. You cannot expect interventions from psychopaths’ every time you screw this up. No more lies, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face was solemn. “I will never do something like that again. But I cannot promise that I’ll never lie to you…”

“At least, you’re being honest. Well, I’m probably the first idiot who wants to be your friend; so can’t complain. Its ok, Sherlock, baby steps…”

He was looking dazed, like John had taken a hammer to his head. “So much for calling me a ‘madman’ on your blog. Wanting to be my friend makes you equally crazy…”

“Good…So we’re both mad.” John was grinning widely now. “Can’t have it any other way, can we?”

***

 

Ten minutes later, when John left to have a cup of tea; Sherlock was still smiling. His phone buzzed and his smile turned into a scowl, as he checked the display.

“What do you want?”

“Cheer up, Sherlock. This is a purely business call for something you wanted. It’s a quaint one bedroom kitchen, just two blocks from his surgery. My assistant will email you the address.”

Sherlock bristled, “I know that you have my hospital room bugged. So you already know that John isn’t moving. So, by extension, the deal is off and this call is completely pointless.”

“John decided to stay. That’s good, isn’t it?” The ‘I told you so’ was in the way he said it. “So can we go right into the details of the case I want your help with?”

“THE DEAL IS OFF.”

“Unfortunately dear brother, the success or failure of your endeavor was never a part of our deal. I have kept my end of the bargain. It’s not my concern, that you changed your mind.”

“Piss off, Mycroft, go eat something other than my head.” He cut the call.

 

***

Mycroft was chuckling, as he replaced the phone on his desk.

“Sir?” Heidi regarded him uncertainly.

He schooled his features to be inscrutable once more. “Yes… We can discontinue the audio surveillance of my brother’s hospital room now. While you are at it, please see to the removal of a transmitter, hidden under Dr. Watson’s jacket collar, before he finds it.”

“Yes Sir.” Her face was smooth once again.

He straightened in his chair as he sipped his non-fat latte.  
“Sorry for that interruption, dear…back to business then. About the progress report from the M.O.D regarding the Bruce-Partington Program; you were saying…”

 

The End…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dear readers, thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> The title for this chapter {FOLIE à DEUX literally meaning ‘madness shared by two’} was inspired by an episode of X-Files; in which Scully uses it to describe their relationship, to Mulder. I personally believe, that it is a staple requirement of any epic love-story!)
> 
> That’s that… This is the first story I have written. I love writing, but I equally hate typing. What I really want to say is that I need to know if this was good enough to have left the pages of my diary; for me to continue posting other stories… so please review!


End file.
